So we walked on silently to the farther end of the terrace, in a very matter-of-fact way, turning to come back again just as we had gone. And I could be positive that the creature saw us all the time, for the row of houses was very short, and he was well to the front of the balcony.
Our 'stratagem'—I have always liked the word, ever since I read Tales of a Grandfather, which I thought a great take-in, as it's just a history book, neither more nor less, and the only exciting part is when you come upon stratagems—succeeded. As we got close up to the parrot's house, next door to Mother Wylie's, you understand, and, of course, next door to the invisible princess's, we heard a sound. It was a sort of rather angry squeak or croak, but loud enough to be an excuse for our stopping short and looking up.
And then, as we still did not speak, Master Poll, his round eyes glaring at us, I felt certain, was forced to open the conversation.
'Pretty Poll,' he began, of course. 'Pretty Poll.'
'All right,' I called back. 'Good morning, Pretty Poll. A fine day.'
'Wants his dinner,' he went on. 'I say, wants his dinner.'
'Really, does he?' I said, in a mocking tone, which he understood, and beginning to get angry—just what I wanted.
'Naughty boy! naughty boy!' he screeched, very loudly. Pete and I grinned with satisfaction!